I love the land!

My fathers lived and died there;

But not for that the homage of their son : I found the spirit in its native pride there

Unfettered thoughts-right actions boldly done : I also found-(the memory shall preside here,

Throned in this breast, till life's tide cease to run) Affection tried and true from men high-hearted.— Once more as when from those kind friends I parted, God bless the land!

EVENING PASTIME.

BY JOHN CLARE.

Musing beside the crackling fire at night,
While th' singing kettle merrily prepares
Woman's solacing beverage, I delight
To read a pleasant volume, where the cares
Of life are sweetened with the Muse's voice,-
Thomson, or Cowper, or the Bard that bears
Life's humblest name, tho' Nature's favoured choice,
Her pastoral Bloomfield ;— and, as evening wears
Weary with reading, list the little tales

Of laughing children, who edge up their chairs
To tell the past day's sport, which well avails
To cheer the spirit. While fond fancy shares
Their artless talk, man's sturdy reason fails,
And memory's joy grows young again with theirs.

RECANTATION.*

BY HENRY MACKENZIE, ESQ.

HENCE with the light, the rash, the ribald strain
My youthful fancy in its folly sung,

Marking the ANCIENT MAID with jest profane,
With ill imagined verse and flippant tongue :
My better judgment venerates the maid

Whose life, devoted to each friendly claim, Gives to all others comfort, care and aid,

To self no present thought, no distant aim: And still, Amanda, from the silent grave Thou hast a voice to teach, a warning voice to save. Peace to her shade-an humble poet prays, Repentant of his sin of early youth, In idle wanderings when the fancy strays From sober reason far, and serious truth: Now many a year has bleached his locks to grey, And better thoughts his ripened sense can give, And wisdom checks the smiles so falsely gay,

On folly's frolic lip that wont to live:

He pleads for pardon from the vestal train,
In all as weak, be sure, but much a fairer strain.

* Vide "The Old Maid," a poem in the last volume of Mr. Mackenzie's Works.

G

How many tender offices of love,

To many a family to their care resigned,

The gentle Maids have taught their friends to prove,
Felt, deeply felt, though scarce to be defined!
Taught from its infancy, the orphan child,
On its dear aunt for such support to lean,
Has felt her ruling wisdom firm, but mild,

And many a care averted though unseen;
And sometimes, wayward, peevish, would not know
The thousand tender cares her kindness would bestow.

And gentler far the cares of womankind

Than those the rougher sex can give the soul,
The silent offices that lurk behind

The seeming harshness of an aunt's controul;
To guard the health, the safety to provide
Of her young pupil, many an ill to shun
That else unheeding childhood might betide,

Or risks that fond believing youth might run ; That aunt's experience, like some guardian sprite, Watched o'er the devious path to point the path of right.

Methinks I see Amanda's favourite boy, On her soft lap his flaxen locks reclined, His morning hour with glistening smile employ, And lisping tongue that speaks the artless mind; Her willing hand by his small fingers pressed, He prays to hear the oft repeated tale, Of parents by their travelled children blessed When dire disaster made their fortunes fail, Or piteous story of the Orphan Pair, Trusted-too fatal trust-to cruel uncle's care.

Then would her lecture his young virtues form, And with persuasive words direct his view To that blest Power, who heeds the smallest worm, And yet from nothing all creation drew : Then would her early culture shape the soul To every good and every pious thought Of Him, whose sovereign and supreme controul Supports the being which his goodness wrought: And oft of heavenly wisdom's worth she told, Which Israel's sapient King preferred to gems and gold. Or if, perchance, the Patriarch's tale she told, His father's darling like the listening boy, Whom envious brethren into Egypt sold,

And reft their sire of all his age's joy :"Sold for a slave? and to a foreign land? Alas, my aunt! and to a gypsy lord?—” (Then with a stronger grasp he squeezed her hand), “To feel the cutting whip or binding cord ! The cruel whip thy Billy never knew,— So good is my papa; so good, my aunt, are you !” And when a sick bed held the darling child,

How would that bed her midnight tending watch;
How would she whisper with low accent mild,
And bid his nurse let softly down the latch;
Or gave the drink from her alone he took,

Mixed by her careful hand in measured cup,
When dread infection's fear the room forsook,
And soft persuasion made him drink it up -
Tasting it first herself to prove it right —
And for its balmy power watched the long anxious
night.

And oft beyond “this bank and shoal of time,”
Beyond yon starry orbs that gem the sky,
She spoke, in hallowed words, of truth sublime,
And laid celestial scenes before his eye.
Skilled in the Sacred Book whose heavenly lore
Reveals the solace of the Christian creed,
She spoke of bliss when time shall be no more,
With solemn texts the Christian's hopes that lead
Above the evils of this passing state,

To gild the darkest hour of most disastrous fate.

And when the last dread hour approached the bed
Where dying friend or relative was laid,—
That last sad scene to which her duty led,

Where friendship watched, or sacred duty prayed,
With pious awe she showed the comfort near,
That comfort holy faith can well supply,
Staff of the Parent God it cannot fear,

Who beams his radiance on the closing eye; That eye she raised-with zeal and truth combined, Which blest religion formed on her exalted mind. Oh! little know the men of pampered sense The bliss those sacred doctrines can bestow; Blessings which faith and piety dispense,

Even in this scene of mingled weal and woe : But when the hour shall come, as come it must, When all the glories of this world shall fade, And its proud columns crumble into dust-

Then are the triumphs of that faith displayed; Then is the earnest of the future given,

That lifts the faithful Christian's closing eye to Heaven!